


No Man's Land

by Ink-Raven (k505)



Series: The Thirteen Gates of Death Chronicles [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Dies, Assassins, Assassins' Guild, Attempted Murder, Contracts, Crime, Detectives, Discrimination, F/F, F/M, Goblin Contracts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jail Sentences, Lords of Magic, Lost Boys, M/M, Magical Religions & Practices, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Morally-Grey Unspeakables, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, New Magical Abilities, New Magical Politics, New Magical Traditions, Ninja Students, Peter Pan - Inspiration, Reincarnated Harry Potter, Reincarnated Ninja, Reincarnation, Secrecy vows, Secret Magical Societies, Seers, Unspeakable Contracts, Werewolves (mentioned), altered history, homeless children, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k505/pseuds/Ink-Raven
Summary: Albus Dumbledore, Harry’s official guardian, is murdered in the spring of 1984, and the money he had been sending to the Dursleys stops coming. Vernon Dursley attempts to kill his four-year-old nephew, and everything changes.Before he became known as Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and a Samsara-born, he was the homeless orphan known as Shade of No Man’s Land. This story chronicles his time as Shade, the Warrior, and Defender of the Lost Boys, and the Hero of No Man’s Land against the monsters and villains, which plague this secret underground society.





	1. Of Shooting Fish in Barrel and Other Terrible Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BluC1026](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluC1026/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter Update - Friday, June 28, 2019. I hope you enjoy the story. I put in a lot of work into it.

#  **No Man's Land**

#### A Side Story to the Thirteen Gates of Death Chronicles

**Extremely Explicit Adult Content – _Read at your Own discretion_**

Created, Written and Illustrated by Ink-Raven (k505)

 _E_ _dited and Proofread by BluC1026_

 **(Full) Disclaimer:** I do not own the _True Blood_ ǀ _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ (TV/Book) Series, (mentions of) the _Dresden Files_ (TV/Books) Series, _Teen Wolf_ (MTV’s TV) Series, the _Vampire Dairies_ (TV) Series, the _Constantine_ (TV 2014-2015) series, the _Originals_ (TV) series, (hints of) _Lucifer_ (TV series), the _Labyrinth_ (film), or _JK Rowling’s Magical World_ (The Harry Potter Series (books 1-7/Films 1-8), Quidditch throughout the Ages (book), The Tales of Beetle the Bard (book), the Cursed Child (script), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (film series)). They belong to their creators and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Please note, this is a work of fiction and depicts the characters and not the actors in anyway.

 **Permission:** Please ****_feel free to_** **write your own spins offs of this story (after discussing the premise with me), translate it into another language, create podcasts, or draw fan art (I’d be very appreciative if someone turned this into a fan manga or fan comic). However, please link them back to this story, either through a hyperlink or “inspired by.” This story does not belong to you and although, I’m allowing spin-offs, translations, podcasts and comics, I am not giving you permission to claim this story as your own. If you’re desperate to speak with me, you can email me at ****_bryona.e.hart@gmail.com_**. **Flames are not appreciated and will get you blocked from my email. Constructive criticism is always welcomed, so long as you provide examples and facts. This story and the spin-offs must only be posted on Archive of Our Own, unless the Archive is deleted. If you attempt to steal the story by claiming it as your own, all further chapters or the following stories in the series will not be posted.

 **Future Main Pairing:** Lucius Malfoy/Regulus Black/Wyatt Ravenswood/Odysseus Malfoy/Cassius Prince/Caelum Black/Harry

 **Future Side Pairings:** Rolf Scamander/Luna Lovegood, Viktor Krum/Reinaldo McNair/Hermione Granger, Frankie Belby/Lee Jordan/Daphne Greengrass, Gregory Belby/Angelina Johnson, Neville Longbottom/Hannah Abbott, Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass, Yiska Three-Hawks/Riley Lys-Morcant, Tom Riddle Jr. ǀ Lord Voldemort/Nagini/Bellatrix Lestrange/Narcissa Malfoy/Evan Rosier/Alecto Carrow/Emma Vanity/Ismelda Murk/Merula Snyde/Gemma Farley/Barty Crouch Jr./Tulip Karasu/Isobel MacDougal/Flora Carrow/Nadia Nott, Remus Lupin/Daisy Maye/Gabriella Harkness/Maria Carbone/Natalie Norton/Heather Nix/Angelique Cortez, Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin/Sirius Black, Charles Urquhart/Oleander Malfoy/Cedric Diggory, Severus Snape/Edward Murray/Nicodemus Diggory, Magnus Ravenscroft/Arthur Weasley/Oisin McCaffrey, Rodolphus Lestrange/Bellatrix Black (Past), Claudius Malfoy/Narcissa Black (Past), Fleur Delacour/Ophelia Malfoy

 **Author’s Notes on Artwork & Raffles: **This is only the partially-illustrated version of “No Man’s Land”. To receive the fully illustrated version, in each of your reviews (only one per chapter please), at the top, post this symbol: **(+),** and your name will be added to the raffle as many times as you review. Your review must contain the **(+)** to be added, each time. The Prizes are one hand-bound print-copy (hard-copy) of my fully illustrated and completed fan fiction story and one fully-illustrated and completed e-published book format copy of the fan fiction story. Please indicate in each and every review (alongside the symbol **(+)** ) which format you’re interested in (as either **e-pub** or **hard-copy** ). There will be a limited amount of copies. However, you will only receive the title you submit your name to if you win the raffle. For an entire set of the series, you must submit to the final raffle, which will not open until an undecided future date. The **e-published** copies will be made available sooner rather than later, as I still need the materials and practice book binding by hand for the **hard-copy**  copies.  

 **Requests:** I’m open to requests if you want to read more about certain characters’ and their backstories. Please feel free to email me.

* * *

**_May 1984._** _They put Albus Dumbledore to rest on a balmy spring evening. The Slytherin and Ravenclaw students stared solemnly on as they lowered the casket. The two other houses, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, let loose sobs or cried hysterically into their friends’ arms. William “Bill” Weasley remembered the duel with colorless apathy. He had born witness to the Headmaster’s death from the windows of his transfiguration classroom. Barty Crouch Jr., who had previously been declared to have died in Azkaban, and Evan Rosier, who had been mistakenly reported killed in battle, had overpowered the Headmaster, fighting him two-on-one. However, most astonishing was when Rosier had disarmed the Headmaster, claiming his wand, before the man was aware of his presence. Dumbledore had drawn a second wand from the sleeve of his robe. Then the Headmaster had incapacitated Crouch when Rosier sent the killing curse at him from behind. The Headmaster died instantly, engulfed in green light. He fell, eyes staring sightlessly up into the blue sky covered in cumulus clouds._ That was end of Albus Dumbledore’s dynasty and the beginning of something else.

* * *

 

“Run, run, run away, as fast as you can, but you can’t escape me. I’m the shadowed man.” Her pursuer calls tauntingly. Her heart beats frantically in her chest as she tries to evade her pursuer and his creatures. She dashes over fallen trees and slips crisscross over the river to hide her scent from his creatures. Dread and terror curls in her gut, making her breaths even more labored. She is desperate to escape him. She knows she’s as good as dead, but a small kernel of hope burns in her chest. The discovery of his deceit and his true identity will haunt her forever, even in the arms of death. He’s a man with the heart of a monster and the soul of a demon. He has endeared himself to her and her sisters and in doing so, he has made them vulnerable. Her hope is not for herself, but rather for her sisters. If only she can warn them somehow. “I see you.” The man singsongs. A sinewy body made of frozen flesh and pale corpse-like skin, seizes her. She claws at the creature’s neck, desperate to free herself. “Goodbye my darling.” A quick twist and wet snapping sound and she’s gone. Life fading from her eyes. She’s staring down at her own corpse having materialized as a ghost.

“That won’t do.” The man says studying her ghost from under the brim of his top hat. His creatures are ripping into and devouring her flesh, mouths stained with her blood. “Can’t have you spilling my secrets, ghostling.” The man says conjuring a peculiar green jar inscribed with runes.

“No!” She screams, as the jar sucks her translucent form in. She’s trapped. The lid snaps into place. She slams her translucent fists again the unbreakable glass. _She is desperate to ensure that her sacrifice has not been in vain. No! No! No! The jar is tight and confining, unpleasantly so. It’s so small and cramped and dark. If she could breathe, she would be gasping for breaths in a panic._

“A Ghost in a jar,” he chuckles, “What an oddity.”

_It would be some years, before her ghost could escape and pass onto the afterlife. It would be some time, indeed. However, first Shade would need to come to the NeverEver and then she’d be freed._

* * *

Chapter One

##  **Of Shooting Fish in a Barrel**

**And Other Terrible Things**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162258881@N05/32351626298/in/dateposted-public/)

 

 **T** he Dursley family, of number four Privet Drive, are perfectly _normal_ , thank you very much. The family is composed of Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley and their son, Dudley Dursley. Vernon Dursley is a large meaty man with very little neck and a large, blond handlebar-mustache. He has small and watery pale-blue eyes. He works as a salesman for Grunnings, makers of fine drills. Mister Dursley likes to slick back his hair with a fine-tooth comb and pomade every morning, _like a proper businessman_ , before trimming his mustache. He wears a charcoal-grey tweed suit and white dress shirt with an overly starched collar, to work every day. His dress shirt stretches over his large belly unappealingly, and he is constantly sweaty. He drives his fancy company car, the red Vauxhall Astra, to work, which gleams in the morning light and his neighbors view with jealousy. He doesn’t like to read his mail in the morning, not before his secretary hands him his morning tea at least. He carries a black leather briefcase and a black umbrella to work. On his days off, he likes to watch the telly or grill, depending on the weather.

His wife, Petunia Dursley nee Evans, has thick and wavy platinum-blond hair which reaches her shoulders, when it is down. She tends to wear her hair up in a variety of updos featured in the “Modern Housewife” magazine. She has navy-blue colored eyes framed by short thick eyelashes and thin eyebrows. She has high sculpted cheekbones and a long slightly upturned nose. Her skin is tanned and somewhat leathery from too much time spent sunbathing at the local pool. She has buckteeth and a very long neck which is useful in craning around the bushes to spy on the neighbors. She is tall and unbecomingly thin. Petunia has a strict schedule for her weekdays from between breakfast to just before her husband arrives home for dinner. Mondays and Fridays, after handing off Dudley to his private nursery, are spent at the local pool eyeing up the lifeguards and sunbathing in her one-piece brilliant-blue swimsuit. The afternoons, until her precious son is to arrive home is spent reading trashy romance novels or thumbing through, the aforementioned, “Modern Housewife.” Tuesdays and Thursdays afternoons, after mornings of vigorous cleaning, are spent gossiping over tea with the neighborhood ladies. Wednesdays she joins her local Romance book club at the local juice bar. The weekends she watches the telly with her husband, pre-prepared meals for the week, and minds her son.

Dudley Dursley is four years old and doesn’t have much to contribute to the household at this time. He is larger than his age group, both taller and wider, with two wobbly chins and a beachball-shaped body. He is a late walker and occasionally, takes unsteady steps. He likes to pick the boogers out of his nose and throw things. His favorite hobby, however, is to make the Dursley’s most unwelcomed burden and their darkest secret, cry, which is a challenging task.

Harry James Potter is the son of Petunia’s late ( _and estranged_ ) sister, Lily Potter nee Evans, and her wealthy husband, James Potter. He has wild copper-brown curls and large and inquisitive forest-green eyes framed by long eyelashes and expressive eyebrows. The boy has pretty alabaster skin. He is petite and slender for his age group, and seriously underfed. With an angular face, high sculpted check bones and small upturned nose, Harry squared jaw and dimpled chin are only highlight by his lack of baby fat. His coral-pink lips are generous with a full bottom lip. Harry is a quiet child and a precocious one. Having just turned two years old, he is already walking and speaking. The boy speaks in short sentences and Petunia dreads the day he begins asking questions. The boy has a peculiar accent and people often mistake it for a slight lisp, which they find darling. However, Petunia has heard him speak in Asian gibberish as he sleeps. She is certain that her freakish nephew has an accent.

He’s far from a normal child, like her Dudley. Why, just the other day it has come to her attention that he can read. The abnormal little thing was reading the instructions on the pancake box. She’d been called away and had left boy measuring out ingredients for their pre-prepared weekly meals. Since then, she has thrown a cookbook at him and yells at him to put together the ingredients for a meal, while she watches the telly. She knows she’d never let her own child near a knife at his age, but at least he isn’t at the stove yet. That would be in a year or so, she decides with a sour huff. 

* * *

 

_My name is Harry James Potter. I don’t remember much about my early life. I remember a woman, my mother, pleading for my life and a flash of green light, the killing curse. Maybe it’s because my mother, Lily Potter, gave her life for mine, that I value my life more than I may have once. I hope that I make her proud and that she would not be disappointed by what I am._

_I am a Samsara-born, a term the magical populace uses to describe an individual who is reincarnated with their memories intact. In my previous incarnation I was called Master Malice. I was not a good man by any stretch of the imagination. I was a legendary assassin working for notable Japanese nobility who could pay the assassin community for our continuing service. Then we were betrayed by the magical Emperor, Emperor Kyoya of the Apricot Throne. He wanted to eliminate the powerful communities which existed outside of his direct control. I died, sacrificing myself to give others more time to escape, especially my disciples and the other students. One moment, I am floating in darkness and in the next, I open my eyes to witness a woman pleading for my life. Wherever Lily Potter may be, I hope I can do her proud._

* * *

 

 **N** ovember 26th, 1984 began like any other day in the Dursley household with one exception – Vernon called in sick to work. Vernon Dursley never calls in sick, no matter the state of his health. Petunia called me in sick to my Kindergarten, last night. No doubt, because of the dark bruising around my right eye. Something about Vernon’s change in behavior has made me wary. So, while I am cooking breakfast, I slip two steak knives into the waistband of my pants, _better safe than sorry_. Of late, Vernon has become increasingly short-tempered towards Petunia and Dudley, and violent towards me. I believe it is the state of his financials, something has deviated in his usual income. _This is not a good thing for me and my continuing health._ The luxuries Petunia used to buy at the grocery are now being budgeted out, alongside the exorbitant fees of her membership at the pool. Dudley has not been receiving every toy he wants. My gym shoes, with the big hole in the right toe, have grown excessively ragged garnering attention from others to my Aunt’s distress. _There is a certain tension in the air this morning, which speaks of anticipation and violence._  

Despite Dudley’s complaints about his attending school, since I have off, Petunia drives off with her son wailing in the back of the car. I am cleaning up the kitchen, when I note the time. The car ride to Dudley’s private primary school takes twenty minutes. Petunia left at eight-forty this morning. It is now nearly ten. She left in such a hurry that she left her chunky Motorola mobile phone on the counter. Vernon is sitting at the kitchen table drinking a shot-glass of bourbon and eyeing me speculatively. There’s a tall and thin box at his side. In the distance, I hear our neighbor’s, Mrs. Jones’s, who works part time at a little boutique in the town over, squeal of tires as she backs out of her driveway. I place the last of the now washed dishes in the rack. “Boy, go weed the back garden.” Vernon instructs, despite the lack of weeds and the frost over the flower beds. I nod silently and as I pass, I take Petunia’s phone off the counter and tuck it into my pocket, as I kneel to put on my gym shoes.

I tie my gym shoes, push out the backdoor and quickly head over to the flower bed. I dial the emergency number, 999, on the phone, but do not press the enter key. I tuck the chunky phone behind the evergreens with the volume turned all the way down. This means the 999 operators will hear things on my end, but neither Vernon nor I will hear the operator. I’m hovering over the flower bed near the evergreens, when I hear the slam of the backdoor. I hear the click of the safety on a shotgun turning off. I hit the enter button and the phone goes through to the operator as Vernon begins speaking.

“I should have drowned you when you were left on my doorstep. But no…” he says, but I interrupt.

“You mean someone left me here, on the doorstep of number four privet drive in Surrey? In Surrey?” I say insistently, “Did they leave a letter at least?” I ask honestly incredulous, and my curiosity is piqued.

“Yeah,” the obese man says, “those good for nothing freaks forced you on us. Said they’d pay us £6000 per month. They kept their word for the last three years, but the checks stopped coming about three months ago. Poor Petunia had to cancel her pool membership.” Vernon laments, shotgun pointed unwaveringly at my chest.

“Wait, you were being paid to care for me? But I slept in the cupboard under the stairs.” I ask honestly horrified. Evidently, I had given too many excuses for the Dursley’s behavior. I knew I was unwanted, hell, I knew they considered me a burden. But they were being _paid_ to raise me and were spending it on their own luxuries!

“Yes, and it was a pain in my back to reach over you to get the mop and cleaning fluid all the time.” Vernon mourns his back.

“So, because the money stopped coming, you’re pointing a shotgun at me?” I ask.

“Well, I thought of poisoning you to death or letting you starve in the shed during the summer. However, both would take some time and there’s nothing as stress relieving as putting a bullet in your head.” Vernon says, calmly, “I’ll tell the bobbies it was self-defense, of course. That you had threatened me with the garden rake,” he says gesturing to the large green rake laying on the backyard walk just a few feet out of my grasp. “They might even award me for putting down a freak like you.”

“But what will Aunt Petunia say?” I ask putting an edge of panic into my voice. _I know I won’t die here, I promised myself that I would make Lily Potter proud. I don’t think I’ve done that yet._ As a talented former assassin, I still had some abilities and was half-heartedly retraining myself in them. I wasn’t in perfect shape, but I knew I could move fast enough to survive. I let my hand inch towards the knives in the waistband of my pants. However, I wanted Vernon and Petunia to incriminate themselves so no one else could be hurt because of their greed and callous evil.

“Your Aunt is excited to gossip about how perfectly horrible you were, once you’re dead!” Vernon says.

“But who will cook for you, garden and do the dishes. I’m only four, but when I get older, I can do more.” I plead.

“Just cutting my losses, because, boy, you’re nothing but a burden.” Vernon’s fingers squeeze the trigger. 

* * *

**I** t takes the bobbies and the ambulance not ten minutes after the shot is fired to appear. “Oh, thank god!” Vernon sobs into the shirt of the emergency responder, “I thought my nephew was going to kill me. He ran out the back gate after he stabbed me.” His leg is bloodied, a knife sticks out of the back of his meaty thigh. The emergency responders are looking at him like he’s a particularly disgusting bug under a microscope as they apply pressure on the wound and prepare him for transport to the hospital.

Then a bobby approaches speaking into his transponder for a moment before removing a pair of cuffs and slapping it around the large wrist of Vernon Dursley, “Mister Dursley, you’re being brought in for questioning on the attempted murder of your nephew. Once you’re treated at the hospital, you will be transported to the station to be held and questioned.”

Vernon sputters in disbelief, “What is this rubbish! My nephew tried to kill me with that rake!” Vernon insists.

A classically handsome, tall and broadly built man with strawberry-blonde curls and cobalt-blue eyes, approaches Vernon Dursley, “Mister Dursley, I am Detective Murray. If you were not intending to use your gun, why did you have it out?” The man asks calmly. Vernon sputters incoherently in response and the detective waves the emergency responders and accompanying officer to move Vernon to the back of the ambulance. 

“Detective Murray,” one of the forensic team calls out, “There’s only one set of prints on this rake and it’s not from a child.”

“Did you find the phone?” Murray demands as the ambulance doors shut in Vernon’s vaguely purple face.

“Behind the evergreens,” a different forensic scientist says, offering the bagged and tagged phone. “We’ve also identified the cupboard under the stairs. It’s a supplies closet for the kitchen, but the bedding, and  the wear and tear indicates that is a long term sleeping arrangement for a child.”

“There are four bedrooms upstairs, but only two appear to be inhabited frequently.” The first forensic scientist adds.

“I want Petunia Dursley in custody within the hour. Let us see how she explains this incident.” Detective Murray says. 

* * *

**M** iss Arabella Figg throws the floo in the hastily lit fire and calls out, “Albus Dumbledore!” She’s almost thrust her head into the fireplace to report Vernon Dursley’s arrest, when she pulls back quickly. Her eyebrows and eyelashes are singed. She stares disbelievingly at the fireplace. The flames have not turned green, so that she can floo call her employer. She tries again and again, throwing floo powder into the fire by the handfuls and calling out, “Albus Dumbledore,” all for naught. The doorbell rings as she opens the window to air out the smoke in her house. Still dressed in her patched and worn housecoat, she answers the door.

“Yes?” she asks of her neighbor.

“I couldn’t help but notice that your fireplace is smoking.” The neighbor says in a concerned tone of voice, “It’s unseasonably warm out.” The man says pointedly glancing at the melting frost on the grass.

“Just burning some old magazines dearie.” Miss Figg says as if it were an everyday thing.

“Right,” the man says looking past her at the faint wisps of smoke in her living room, “right.” he says a decisive look on his face. “Then if you will pardon me,” he says, and she nods as he quickly leaves.

Not an hour later, the elder care officials arrive on her doorstep and after inspecting her property taking note of her twenty-two kneazles, the kitty litter across the floor, and the moldy half-eaten sandwich in her fridge, they take her into their emergency custody. Her kneazles are picked up by the animal shelter.

_Two months later, her house will be sold. She will have been transferred into a long-term nursing facility. Her stipend from the Potter vaults had stopped coming, but she had been unaware of her unpaid bills. She usually had her muggle friends manage her money. Unfortunately, her savings were gone, and her so-called muggle friends were vacationing permanently abroad._

* * *

“ **S** hit.” I grumble under my breath, as I press a thick wad of newspaper against my bleeding leg to staunch the blood flow. The light dusting of snow under me is stained red with my blood. I have just removed the bullet with fumbling fingers and a knife. I am desperately hoping that my accelerated healing will kick in and save me from crawling to the nearby hospital for assistance. I feel slightly woozy from the blood loss and black spots dance across my sight. “Damn you, Uncle Vernon.” I hiss. The sun shines brightly down on the alley, it’s almost noon. The sun is almost directly overhead, rising to its zenith. I can hear the cars on the street, people arguing loudly and children screaming on a nearby playground. A sense of unease fills me. _I feel too exposed, too vulnerable in the state I find myself in. If anything, even when seemingly weak to others, I have been anything but. However, dizzy from blood loss and with a leg wound, which will slow me down, this is the most vulnerable I have been in some time. My legs throbs dully with pain._  

“Food and Shelter,” I murmur as the blood begins to clot. “The next step is food and shelter.” I grab the little left of the white button-down dress shirt, which I had stolen from a small boutique, and shred it. I then bandage my leg with the thick, white strips of linen. The children’s sized sweatpants, which I also took from the boutique are a little too big, but the belt I pulled out of the trash bin works just fine. I roll the top of the sweatpants several times over the belt to hold them up. Then there is a red ballcap someone left on a bench. I pull up my copper-brown curls and tuck them under the hat to hide their distinctive coloring. The thick and fluffy, black down vest is the last item of clothing I pull on. I slip out of the alley and into a crowd of pedestrians. _I often wonder what my parents’ would have thought of me. Would they be disgusted by bringing a dangerous and terrifying, albeit obsolete, force back into the world? I know I am an aberration, but would they see me as such?_ The light changes and the crosswalk sign lights up. Sticking close to a married couple and their daughter, hoping to be mistaken for their family, I cross the street. I follow them aboard a train and lazily pickpocket a man for a few dollars to pay the train fare. The train soon leaves Surrey for London.

* * *

**N** ovember 28th, 1984. Ms. Margret Wright had worked in Surrey Meadows Primary for the last twenty years. Yet, she had never met any preschooler as peculiar and as extraordinary as the young orphan, Harry J. Potter, in all of her years there. Oh, she’d seen the budding witches and wizards, the muggle-born were two a penny. _Muggle-born witches and wizards, appeared from muggle lineage, whereas half-bloods were from one muggle parent and one magical parent. Purebloods were produced from two magical parents and Noble purebloods came from long magical bloodlines._ She was all too familiar with the magical world’s existence, being the daughter of a Squib. Although, her family had been out of touch with the magical world since the rise of that murderous Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, in the mid-1970s, almost ten years now. “Now class,” she begins noting the glaring absence of her little genius for the fifth day in a row. The distinct lack of his presence was jarring and upsetting.

Ms. Wright is Harry’s first teacher, his kindergarten teacher, and she remembers, with a certain amount of humor, encountering the boy for the first time at the beginning of the school year – she’d taken him for a ruddy girl. The boy had silken-soft, copper-brown curls which fell messily to his shoulders, surrounding his alabaster cheeks and big curious forest-green eyes framed by ridiculously long eyelashes. He was a small slip of a boy with long and thin fingers. During the fall and winter, in which he was present at Surrey Meadows Primary, he’d worn four different knit sweaters, too big by half and patched up with odd bits of spare cloth. The sweaters were so oversized that they hid most of his hands, making his long pale fingers stick out like a scarecrow’s twiggy fingers. He had two pairs of tiny jeans and sneakers with a hole in the toe of the right sneaker. He had a plastic shopping bag for his school supplies and books opposed to a bookbag. All of his school supplies was secondhand, even the box of crayons. However, this did not deter the boy. Opposed to scratching out long lines and scribbles in his coloring books, Mr. Lin, the art teacher excitedly informed Ms. Wright that Harry was writing in Japanese Hiragana. Curiously, Ms. Wright had placed several chaptered books near the quiet little boy. The child had devoured them like they were candy. The books became larger, their subjects more varied, and even in foreign languages, until finally, Ms. Wright just sent the kindergartner to the school library every morning.

However, this was well within the realm of possible, if improbable as it were, but the child’s innate physical skills were fantastical. Harry didn’t run like the other children his age, knees locked together clumsily. No, he ran like a professional runner, long and measured strides. His stamina was incredible, and his hand-to-eye coordination was shocking. Most children couldn’t wield scissors accurately or hold a pencil with an acute finesse. He was well versed in gymnastics, outclassing every other child on the tumbling mats. He could also climb trees like a professional rock climber. They had to ask him to stop eating his lunch in trees to avoid the other children following him up into the branches. The biggest problem with Harry was his horrible older cousin, Dudley Dursley, and his older cousin’s parents and Harry’s guardians, Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursleys were not the type of individuals who you would want as neighbors. Dudley was a bully, plain and simple, and his parents refused to see that. They blamed all their son’s assortment of issues on his cousin, their nephew, Harry. The Dursleys were quite well off and that reflected in Dudley’s toys and clothing. It was easy to see that the Dursleys were neglectful of their nephew if not downright abusive. However, Mr. Dursley was golfing friends with the Principal of Surrey Meadows Primary, who had forewarned the teachers against any _“funny”_ business with the no-good Potter boy. He claimed that all the boy would do was to complain about the good and respectable Dursley family. _It was a pity that the Dursleys hadn’t left the Potter boy in a Boys’ Home. The boy would never amount to anything,_ the principal exclaimed fiercely. One brave teacher, Mr. Lin, had gone against his instruction and reported his suspicions to the authorities. He was promptly fired from his position in the school as the Art teacher. Mr. Lin’s reports mysteriously disappeared and there was no follow up by the authorities.

The boy is often mistaken for being mute, he barely speaks. This concerns many of the staff. However, what concerns Ms. Wright the most is the eerie control the boy has over his magic, which he uses on occasion to deter Dudley from bullying him. Mostly, Dudley couldn’t find his cousin during lunch break and this befuddled many of the other instructors. Only, being a Squib, Ms. Wright could see him through the muggle-notice-me-not charms and had lent him an alibi with the other instructors, as she did for many other magical children over the years. Harry was also apt at covering up bruises on his arms and legs with these charms. “Today we will…” Ms. Wright trails off as a pair of bobbies knock on her classroom door. The principal is standing nervously at their side, looking pale and sweaty, like he’d gone through the wringer. She felt her heart in her throat.

* * *

**V** ernon Dursley has been moved into a holding cell and charged with attempted murder. He glares venomously at the passing officers, watery-blue eyes bore into them as they work. He’s nursing his leg on the cot. He knows his wife and sister are likewise in holding cells, although in a different part of the building. Vernon Dursley is in a bleak and dark mood. He’d called his wealthy father for bail, but the old man had laughed in his face.

_“You do the crime, Vernon,” the old World War II veteran snarls, “You do the time.”_

_“Mum would’ve been so disappointed.” Vernon tries to guilt trip his father._

_“No, Victoria would’ve been disappointed in you, Vernon.” His old man replies, “Victoria didn’t want you to know, but she wasn’t your biological mother. I always wanted to give you up for adoption, alongside that nasty sister of yours. There was bad blood between your biological mother and I. Victoria wanted to give you a chance. She’d be ashamed of the children, who she’d raised. I’m so happy Victoria doesn’t have to see you behind bars. She was too kind-hearted and soft with you and Marge.”_

_“Dad, please.” Vernon says almost heart-broken. “Who was my mother and is Marge really my sister?”_

_“Marge is your half-sister, she wasn’t mine. Your mother was Fiona, didn’t know her last name. She abandoned you and your sister on my doorstep when we broke it off. I married Victoria several months later.” His dad says with a huff._

_“Dad, please, I can’t go to jail.” Vernon nearly blubbers._

_“Then you should’ve thought about your actions. You’re a shortsighted fool, Vernon. You and Marge were always a blemish on my family.” The man says viciously, “You got everything you’ve ever wanted and barely struggled and worked for it. In my youth, I didn’t have half of what you had. You are careless, ignorant, bullheaded and hypocritical. I can only pray that Lizzie raises her nephew to be better, than you ever were.”_

_“My Dudley is with that freakish whore!” Vernon yells in outrage._

_“Your sister is a lesbian, not a freak or whore. I may disagree with her choice of partner, but she’s a better person than you’ll ever be. She’s a successful civil rights lawyer and a wonderful woman. Her lover, while also an international model, fights for human rights in other countries. That is something I can be proud of. You, on the other hand, are nothing to me anymore. Goodbye Vernon.” The phone was slammed down into the cradle and Vernon stared in disbelief at the phone in his hand._  

Vernon mutters unpleasantly below his breath about his father. The afternoon sun cast its light into the holding cells, making it unpleasantly warm in the room. Vernon has already stripped himself of the top of the prison uniform and is only wearing a pair of large gray sweatpants with elastic waistbands and a white undershirt. He’s still uncomfortably sweaty and smells absolutely foul. The day wears onward and officers come and go on their shifts.

* * *

“ **T** his is all you and your freakish nephew’s fault!” Marge sneers at the blonde woman in the cell opposite her own. “I always told Vernon you were a blonde floozy with aspirations above her lot in life. You’re nothing but a money-grubbing whore. I bet Duds isn’t even Vernon’s blood and flesh. Bet you lifted your skirts for anyone who showed you interest.”

“My nephew might be a freak, but I’m no floozy and your insistence is disgusting. Maybe you’re only jealous because I imagine the only males interested in your ugly face are your dogs?” Petunia snaps back causing the large woman’s face to flush and turn vaguely purplish. “What cat got your tongue?” Petunia snarks, “The only thing you’re good for Marge, is your money. My Vernon is worth ten times more than you’ll ever be! You are a disgusting bitch.” Marge makes outraged sounds. She is so enraged she can’t express herself above her wordless bellowing.

“Shut up in there!” An officer yells through the door, “Don’t make me get the hose.”

“When Vernon hears about this?!” Marge snarls finally, far more quietly.

“It doesn’t matter what Vernon hears,” Petunia taunts, “We’re going to jail and that’s the end of it.” 

* * *

 

**To Be Continued**

**Notes:** This chapter is still being illustrated. I should have 2-3 illustrations per chapter. 

Please review!


	2. Once Upon a Time in No Man's Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to No Man's Land.

#  **No Man’s Land**

A Side Story to the Thirteen Gates of Death Chronicles

**Extremely Explicit Adult Content – _Read at your Own discretion_**

Created, Written and Illustrated by Ink-Raven (k505)

 _Edited and Proofread by_ BluC1026 

 **(Full) Disclaimer:** I do not own the _True Blood_ ǀ _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ (TV/Book) Series, (mentions of) the _Dresden Files_ (TV/Books) Series, _Teen Wolf_ (MTV’s TV) Series, the _Vampire Dairies_ (TV) Series, the _Constantine_ (TV 2014-2015) series, the _Originals_ (TV) series, (hints of) _Lucifer_ (TV series), the _Labyrinth_ (film), or _JK Rowling’s Magical World_ (The Harry Potter Series (books 1-7/Films 1-8), Quidditch throughout the Ages (book), The Tales of Beedle the Bard (book), the Cursed Child (script), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (film series)). They belong to their creators and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Please note, this is a work of fiction and depicts the characters and not the actors in anyway. 

 **Requests:** I’m open to requests if you want to read more about certain characters’ and their backstories. Please feel free to email me. 

* * *

Chapter Two

####  **Once Upon a Time**

**In No Man’s Land**

**_S_** ** _eptember 12 th, 1985_** **.** _I’d lasted all of a year on the streets of London, after Vernon shot me, before they, the society of the NeverEver, found me. It was one of the Lost Boys, Benson, who found me and brought me to No Man’s Land. No Man’s Land is one of the ten division of the NeverEver. No Man’s Land is ruled over by Pan and the Lost Boys. They’re not the typical street gang. The NeverEver is only accessible by magic practitioners. I remember my first sight of the NeverEver. Its sheer brilliance astounded me._

“Shit,” I swore under my breath, the street gang of older, muggle, boys were advancing on me. I was cornered in the dark alley behind the bakery where I was picking out confectionary scraps from the trash bin. The street gangs usually leave homeless children alone, but because I am not cowed by their posturing and threats, they take an exception to me. This is not the first time I had encountered them in such a manner. However, it is the first time I have done so while injured escaping the bobbies, who chase the homeless out of their temporary shelters. I have a twisted ankle and a shallow cut on my leg, which has barely scabbed over. The last time, I had barely escaped without any wounds. I had been thankful they weren’t totting weapons. I can clearly see that this time, I am not so lucky. My eyes dart from the brass knuckles to the switch knife. As sense of dread fills me, like a lion gnawing at an antelope’s leg. It is a sickeningly helpless feeling. It’s like being stalked by a predator, the anticipation is nerve-racking.

Something interrupts my anxiety, drawing me out of my cycling thoughts, I feel a pooling darkness to my right. Someone is using shadow magic, albeit not in its traditional manner. I turn to look into the shadows to the right of the trash bin, where I now sense a presence. An older, taller boy has materialized next to it, unseen by the street gang. I could sense that this older boy has a magical core. I’m a magic and aura sensitive. He’s a black boy with mesmerizing molten-gold pools for eyes framed by long eyelashes. His lips are full and a pale coral-pink. He’s a good foot taller than me. His dreadlocks are woven with colorful strings and beads. His clothing, however, is the most peculiar thing about him. He’s wearing worn child-sized brown leather trousers and a baggy and worn white t-shirt unadorned by any graphic or obnoxious logo. Although his t-shirt is covered in grass stains and dirt. “We’ve been looking for you Little Bit. You sure are slippery one, sly too.” He says with a distinct cockney accent. He peeks over the trash bin taking in the advancing street gang. The older boy catches my arm and drags me to the shadows of the alley. He quite literally steps through a shadow cast by the trash bin, like stepping over the threshold of a door with a step up. Colors explode around me and magic warps the landscape to something, unrecognizable, as I stumble forward in surprise.

Where tall office buildings and warehouses once stood, the landscape inverses and the empty spaces fill with structures and the places where those buildings once stood are empty lots. The buildings of this division of the NeverEver are made of white stone, which glimmer in the moonlight. The structures themselves seem to have been stolen from the pages of stories like Arabian Nights. The dark-blue skies over our heads, strewn with stars, are illuminated by colorful paper lanterns which hover over the street, independent of a support structure to hang from. They are lit, by what I can sense is mage light – a magical fire which burns nothing and casts no heat. Colorful silk banners and awnings fill the streets. In the distance, where the river is located in London, is a sea of endless white sand and dark leafless trees. The opposite shore of the river fades into a mist covered bank. It’s warmer here and it’s nighttime where it was day in London. There’s even a slight breeze, bringing smells of aromatic spices and herbs, roasting meat and simmering curries to my sensitive nose. “Excuse me,” I interrupt the older boy who is content to frog march me onward without an explanation. “Who are you and where are we?” I stubbornly dig in my heels. He pauses, realizing his error and turns to me.

“Well, little bit, I’m Benson. I’m one of Pan’s lost boys and this, my curious fellow, is the NeverEver.” He says theatrically.

“And what is the NeverEver?” I ask cautiously.

“It’s never here and never there. It’s the space in between, which is only accessible to a specific magic populace. And you little bit are very much magical.” Benson replies with a small smirk and anticipation alight in his golden eyes.

“I know.” I say.

“Well, that’s a first.” Benson says, eyeing me incredulously, like he can’t believe I’m familiar with that knowledge. I struggle to keep a huff of disdain at my perceived ignorance from escaping my lips. “The NeverEver is only accessible to those magical without any place to go. It’s a home to the lost, forgotten and discarded. There are ten divisions. Pan’s No Man’s Land, where we’re going, is the home to boys. We’re called the Lost Boys and Pan is our leader. We’re currently in the Land of Sands, where the Thief Lord and the Brethren of Thieves live.” A vibrant redhaired girl, carrying a violin and dressed in colorful mismatched silks and tall boots, waves her bow at us as Benson drags me along after him. Benson scowls at the girl turning his nose up haughtily. “Never trust a Sidhe.” The older boy instructs.

 

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162258881@N05/48033976318/in/dateposted-public/)

“What are the Sidhe?” I murmur aloud, curiously, craning my neck around to find the girl, but she is gone. 

“Sidhe is Irish for the fair folk, but most of the women folk of the NeverEver are at least a quarter Sidhe. That chit is half-Sidhe. They call her Cinder on the account of her skills with fire. Now we’re heading into No Man’s Land in a moment.” 

“And you’re a Lost Boy?” I ask cautiously.

“I am an eternal Lost Boy.” Benson replies proudly, “Means I’m going to be forever a boy, but never a man.”

“How’d you go about that?” I ask carefully, not liking the idea. _The process of maturing, albeit destroying innocence of childhood, is something I believe is a privilege and an experience an individual needed. Children are often cruel and with maturity comes self-awareness and hopefully empathy. To be robbed of the experience is not something I would favor._  

“When you’re twelve, Pan will offer you the mead. If you drink, you will always be one of us. If not, you will join the Brethren of Thieves, the Messengers or the Men of Darkness.” Benson says with a shrug. _This does not sound promising._

“How old are you, Benson?” I ask cautiously.

“What’s the year, little bit?” he responds.

“It’s 1985.” I answer softly. _Really? How effective was this mead and what were its consequences?_

“Well, I was born in 1942, so I’ve been twelve for quite some time.” I feel a sense of nausea at the revelation, but I keep silent. I will not voice my opinion. All individuals have the right to choose their own fates.

We enter into a stone building, a breathtaking cathedral with stained-glass windows depicting various Pagan scenes in blues-greens-browns. We enter through the back right next to the Cathedral’s pulpit. A large clock, exposed gears and cogs hangs motionless above the pews. Turning to the left of the pulpit, Benson knocks twice on a blue-green painted wood door, carved with leaves and feather. It is opened by a younger boy with thick golden curls and big blue eyes framed by golden eyelashes. “Welcome back, brother Benson.” The young one chirps happily, showing off a missing front tooth. The door shuts behind us with a bang and the darkness is illuminated by old-fashioned gas lanterns lit with a familiar white-blue flame, foxfire. It illuminates a long passage made of stone. Benson leaves the little blond boy guarding the door. The passage slowly opens up into an ancient forest of gnarled oaks and twisted elms. The forest is illuminated by fireflies and floating colorful paper lanterns, much like those in the Land of Sands. Benson leads me through a series of pathways with thick coverings made of rocks or living vines. We enter into a large clearing populated by treehouses and rope bridges which span from tree to tree. Up on a stone carved dais and on a chair carved of metal, wood and cushioned with cloth, sits a twelve-year-old boy with long sun-bleached white hair, golden-brown skin and mismatched eyes – one emerald eye and one blue eye. There is no one else present, currently.

 

“Pan,” Benson greets, “I’ve brought the little bit.” Pan, a regal child, examines me in interest for one long moment.

“Thank you, brother Benson.” The preteen says peering down at me curiously. I offer him a quirk of my lips. “What do you think Tinker?” Pan ask abruptly.

There is movement from just behind the chair, I now realize is a throne. A petite woman, no taller than two feet, but fully matured and dressed in a colorful garment made of silk cut into leaf patterns, appears. She has thick brunette hair, which frames her pointed angular face in a pixie cut. She peers down at me and I immediately notice that she is blind, her eyes a clouded-blue. “He’s not one of us.” Pan and Benson stiffen, their hands balling into fists as if preparing to fight me, “He’s not one of us, but he will be a great ally, a fostering of the Lost Boys.”

“We’ve never had a fostering before,” Pan murmurs contemplatively, as Benson relaxes, “Why him though?”

“He’s young of body, but old of mind and powerful, oh so powerful.” Tinker’s voice suddenly gains a singsong quality, “Many will seek, but only one will find, the child hidden in the dark. Brother of the Lost, friend to all, and warrior of the NeverEver. He who fight the darkness, will find a home among all of the NeverEver. Bringeth the shadow in the night, the starlit blade and the skills of an assassin, his name is Shade.” Tinker blinks and seems to snap back into reality. 

“Shade, huh?” Pan murmurs. “Welcome, brother Shade.” Pan says, as he offers his thin hand with long spidery fingers to me. I vaguely wonder what I am getting myself into as I accept his hand and give it a firm shake. He withdraws his hand quickly as if I had manhandled it. “Quite a grip you have there, Shade.” I give a smile and a little shrug. “I’m not used to it. The boys should be back in an hour or so from scrounging up dinner. I will introduce you. Good job, Benson. You’re free to show Shade around. He will be bunking with you.” Pan instructs. Tinker has disappeared once more behind the throne.

Benson grabs my hand eagerly and drags me over to a hanging wood and rope ladder which goes up the through the wood of the treehouse platform. We scale it, one at a time. The treehouses sit on circular platforms with railings, the railings stop only for the wood and rope bridges which span tree to tree. Several bridges meet at a platform without a house on it. These empty platforms have long benches and tables strew across them. However, most interesting to me are the stone and metal, tall firepits which frame the rope and wood bridges on either side. There’s a single tall one at the top of the ladder. They are unlit, but there’s a stone shelter for dry wood, and also flint and steel for setting a fire.

The treehouses are made of stones carefully wedged together with moss stuck in the cracks, and wooden roofs under tall growing grasses. Benson drags me excitedly over three swinging rope bridges, and through an open door to a small treehouse. The treehouse is divided into four rooms with wood dividers and no doors. Each room has two straw pallets covered in thick and incredible soft blankets and pillows. The blankets are worn, but well-cared for. There’s also a bunch of cubbyholes built into the wall over the pallets. One pallet is clearly assigned to Benson, since the cubbyholes are filled. The other is meant for me, no doubt, as the cubbyholes are empty. There is a large blue and green quilt covering the spare pallet and a massive pile of pillows.

“How do things work around here?” I wonder aloud.

 “What do you mean?” Benson asks, throwing himself down on his bed. Benson puts his chin on his hands looking up at me, feet swinging above his head, pants sliding down to reveal mismatched socks with a hole in the left big toe.

“Well, when I was living on the streets, food was a concern. You’ve got shelter here, but what about hygiene and an education?” I ask carefully. I hope I have not offended the eternal lost boy.

“We usually nick food from convenience stores whenever we’re low.” Benson says casually, “We shower once every three days,” Benson continues, “Don’t need to smell up the place. Also, those more interested in an education learn about herbs and Latin. Pan makes sure we can read, write and do arithmetic.” Benson says with a shrug. This alarms me, there’s no real nutrients in convenience store food and if my suspicions are correct, they’re primary source of food is candy. A plan begins forming in my mind. There’s little I can do about the hygiene and education, but food, yeah, I can do a lot about that.

“You’ve got a thinking face on.” Benson complains.

“Well, it’s because I’m thinking.” I reply.

“Oh, dear.” Benson snarks back. “Don’t burn down No Man’s Land now,” Benson warns teasingly.

* * *

“ **I** like crows. Crows are considered among the smartest of their species. Also, the crow tends to be so numerous in locations, it is easy to lose track of a single one. A crow is not something most individuals note upon. Truly, they are an under appreciate bird.” The young man say conversationally to Rat.

Rat is a man, who appears to be in his late twenties. He’s thin and has a long and thin nose with an upturned tip, which is covered in dark-brown freckles. He has sleek black hair, which he slicks back into a stubby ponytail, and large golden-brown eyes. His paper-white skin is covered in pock marks, and a pair of silver spectacles perched at the end of his long and thin nose. Rat is a hoarder of knowledge. He’s got the biggest library in all of London, containing both magical and mundane texts. It helps that he’s lived hundreds of years. He’s also the young man’s teacher and confidante. “And that is why they call you the Lord of Crows.” Rat drawled, pocketing an old book from the trash heap. Crow lounges on a roof above the pickings. “Nothing else, all the books here, I’ve got my hands on elsewhere,” Rat say dismissing the heap. Rat turns and heads for the nearest manhole.

“Oi, wait up!” Crow complains indignantly, jumping from the roof to atop the trash heap and then onto the ground taking after his rodent-like friend. Rat singlehandedly lifts the heavy metal manhole cover and gestures for Crow to enter first. Crow drops into the murky sewer below and steps away, allowing Rat to take the ladder and lower the manhole cover.

The manhole is deeper than most, almost half-a-mile below ground. Crow settles on the ladder of one of the branching tunnels, before climbing downwards in the dark and dank depths. They traveler further and further into the depths of London lost. The metal jungle gym is the carcass of underground works submerged in forgotten catacombs and caves. They reach a particularly musty tunnel and make their way into the darkness. There is a click of Rat flipping a switch and a cement room is illuminated by hundreds of bare bulbs on swinging wires. Rows upon rows of bookcases fill the room. It’s the library of lost knowledge and matters forgotten to the mundane world. “Get to work Crow.” Rat says gesturing vaguely at his student’s little desk wedged between the shelves filled on London’s plumbing works and Historical Agriculture practices from around the world. Crow’s desk has been consumed by all the magical books Rat can stack on it.

Whatever studying Crow was about to accomplish was waylaid by the entrance of a very un-welcomed, if important, figure. Cinder Soot, commonly known simply as Cinder, flounces into the library with a huff of frustration. “Out, out, out!” Rat screeches as soon as he sees the Sidhe girl. Cinder is something of a taboo to Rat, consider her sacrilegious burning of one of the library’s trashy ezines. She’s got a talent with fire and because of that Rat has kept her away from his precious rooms of knowledge.

“Now, don’t be like that, Rat.” The girl teases, “I come bearing news.”

“Tell me your news quickly, then get lost! No more knowledge shall suffer your evil!” Rat exclaims. Crow coughs to smother his inappropriate laughter, causing Rat to momentarily glare at him.

“Shade has finally appeared in the NeverEver!” Cinder crows triumphantly.

“Yay.” Rat says un-enthusiastically, “Go tell someone who cares!”

“Now, now Rat,” Crows says patronizingly, “Isn’t it your job to report to the Sidhe Court when this event finally occurs.”

“You’re both insufferable.” The rodent-like man hisses, “Fine,” he says approaching a dusty standing mirror and pulls of its sheet. The dulled silver filigree of the once beautiful mirror is now worn and dirtied. Rat taps the clouded glass and whispers to the pane, “Marquis de Obscura.” He says glancing over his shoulder pointedly. The mirror is a way of contact between him and the immensely powerful and ancient, city masters and the Sidhe Courts. There are five of them, representing the five courts of the cardinal points, which includes the city center, the financial district. The city center, the most valuable real-estate in London, belongs to the most dangerous and legendary of them all, Marquis de Obscura. No one has seen the man beneath his heavy cowl and mask, but there is a reason he is called the Lord of the Dark Mirror. He has the ability to “see” through reflective surfaces from the dark dimension in which he stores his physical form. His knowledge of events are seemingly omniscient. How the man is not driven insane by his immense power, Rat does not know.

It takes several seconds before the masked Sidhe appears in the steadily darkening mirror, “What do I owe the pleasure of your communication to, Rat?” the Sidhe asks in an eerily echoing voice. He cocks his head to one side like a lost puppy, but his mask ruins the comparison. Truly the creature strikes a frightening figure.

“Shade has made his way into the NeverEver.” Rat says with a theatrical sigh. _Let it be known, Rat is not one easily intimidated in the face of overwhelming power or at prestige and infamy_.

“Excellent. It is time.” The ancient creatures says. The mirror lightens rapidly, and then no image is reflected in its clouded surface. Rat sniffs in disdain at the Sidhe Lord’s poor manners.

* * *

 **H** is black satin cloak billows behind him as he enters the Halls of Midnight. The darkened pathways are empty of the usual late night revelers. The sleep-sorcery, which his servants have woven over the NeverEver, has taken hold sending every inhabitant into a deep slumber. The Marquis de Obscura enters the NeverEver through the home of the Men of Darkness. The Halls of Midnight are carved into a towering coastline cliff of bone-white stone. It has been carved into caverns and crevices. Skilled craftsmen have chipped beautiful Celtic knots into the stone. The underground, below the cliff and further inland, has been hallowed out. Ravines had become the meeting place of merchants trading goods and skills. Red paper lanterns bob and dance overhead. Mosaics and hidden underground waterfalls populate this part of the structure. Moonlight streams through the narrow windows above his head, casting deep shadows. The Marquis continues onwards, passing through the Midnight Halls to the Land of Sands and finally reaching No Man’s Land. The Marquis’s mage sight picks up the presence of more than his Sidhe aura. There are two other Sidhe present. 

The Marquis transforms into his avian form, a massive inky-black raven. He takes flight following the unique magical signature of the Samsara-born and by extension the two others of his species. He finds the two other Sidhe hovering over the one mortal who is fighting the sleep-spell. It surprises him, how powerful this mortal is, never mind that he is a Samsara-born. Fighting off a sleep-spell cast by his servants is impressive. “Prince Erebus,” greets the other male Sidhe in the room.

“Lord Morpheus,” the Marquis de Obscura, otherwise known as Prince Erebus, greets the other. Unlike Prince Erebus, Morpheus does not wear a cowl or cloak. He is bare faced, revealing beautiful, if eerie, symmetric features. His eyes are a deep-blue-black like the night sky, and like the stars which populate the nighttime sky, silver flecks fill his endless gaze. His hair is a deep ebony and his skin is so-pale it could be made of porcelain. His full lips are sensual, but the smile which adorns his face is cruel and cold. He is tall, taller and thinner than humanly possible, but he is not human.

Turning to their female companion, “Lady Cybele,” He greets the stunning woman with her deeply bronzed skin and her green half-mask. She has thick chocolate-brown hair and golden eyes, but where Morpheus’s smile is cruel and cold, hers is deceptively fond and gentle colored with wiry humor. She could be even more ruthless than Lord Morpheus giver of Dreams and Nightmares or Prince Erebus of Shadow, Shades and Obscuring Darkness. Lady Cybele is the Lady of the Wilderness and in which only the strong survive.

“Prince Erebus,” Lady Cybele returns the greeting before focusing her attention back to the tiny Samsara-born child. “He is remarkable,” the Lady comments, “Powerful, even powerful in comparison to most Samsara-born. I like this one, an interesting fellow who understands survival, strength, courage and sacrifice.”

“So, you’ve already reviewed his memories?” Prince Erebus asks cautiously. Both Lord Morpheus and Lady Cybele nod.

“He was an assassin, powerful and daring, but also empathic and compassionate. He only took life when it was necessary and never took pleasure in killing. He cared deeply for his students and they loved him. He will change the magical world, whether intentionally or unintentionally, I do not know. I will give him my blessing for his efforts, and few magical talents I will gift him with.” She says bending and kiss the boy’s brow. A bright golden light threaded with emerald-green burned on the child’s brow before fading away. Lord Morpheus stares stoically down on the boy before touching the child’s forehead with a gentle hand which bellied his formidable appearance. A bright blue flame with silver sparks manifested on the boy’s forehead before fading once more. Morpheus fades away, into the darkness, much like a  spirit, leaving only Lady Cybele and the Prince.

“Hmmm,” He murmurs in thought before brushing back the child’s unruly curls. A Black flame threaded with silver and sparking with gold manifests on the boy’s forehead before fading. The coloration makes the female Sidhe gasp in surprise.

“Is that wise?” She asks cautiously.

“It is necessary.” Prince Erebus replies, “I have things to attend to now, milady.” He says bowing and in the same movement transforming into his avian form, taking flight. The female Sidhe makes a disdainful sound at the other’s abrupt departure, before she too transforms, but into the sleek and golden pelt of a lion. She leaves the scene, just in time as the sleep-spell begins to fade. Night is waning and dawn will soon break upon the horizon.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

Please review!

How did this chapter make you feel? Was it intriguing?

 


	3. Of Histories Etched in Blood and Bone and of the Scales of Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reading of a will, tying up loose ends of certain characters, and the mystery of the missing Potter

#  **No Man’s Land**

A Side Story to the Thirteen Gates of Death Chronicles

**Extremely Explicit Adult Content – _Read at your Own discretion_**

Created, Written and Illustrated by Ink-Raven (k505)

_Edited and Proofread by_ BluC1026

 

**(Full) Disclaimer:** I do not own the _True Blood_ ǀ _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ (TV/Book) Series, (mentions of) the _Dresden Files_ (TV/Books) Series, _Teen Wolf_ (MTV’s TV) Series, the _Vampire Dairies_ (TV) Series, the _Constantine_ (TV 2014-2015) series, the _Originals_ (TV) series, (hints of) _Lucifer_ (TV series), the _Labyrinth_ (film), or _JK Rowling’s Magical World_ (The Harry Potter Series (books 1-7/Films 1-8), Quidditch throughout the Ages (book), The Tales of Beedle the Bard (book), the Cursed Child (script), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (film series)). They belong to their creators and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Please note, this is a work of fiction and depicts the characters and not the actors in anyway.

* * *

 Chapter Three

**Of Histories Etched in Blood and Bone**

**And of the Scales of Justice**

 

**S** everus Tobias Snape is a wizard who has little tolerance for fools and general idiocy. He is a fiercely intelligent man, a genius Potions maker and a talented spell crafter. However, his most valuable talents lie in the arts of spy craft. He is highly skilled as an orator, a man who can influence others with his great intelligence and wicked tongue. Deception is a skill he is most proficient in. The individuals surrounding him often question his truthfulness and loyalty considering his skills. It is a sad reality in which he lives, sacrificing his happiness for the safety of others.

Severus is bent over his cauldron in his private potions laboratory in Hogwarts. Headmaster Flamel has reshaped the education which Hogwarts provides. Among these changes is that Severus Snape no longer teaches potions. Potions has been combined with Herbology and Astronomy to make HAP, a class shared by the three subjects and taught by three Professors. In addition to is normal function, the class focuses on how all three studies interrelate. Severus Snape is now the Professor of Spell Crafting, one of the sixth year and seventh year student’s electives. This allows Severus the freedom to invent potions in his free time. The only drawback to have a private potions lab at Hogwarts, is that he is required to take on one apprentice for every three years he resides in Hogwarts. It’s not a great loss, he has the choice to take on one apprentice in his choice of either of his masteries – Potions or Spell Crafting. Furthermore, the changes Flamel had wrought on Hogwarts has begun to improve relations and the attitudes of both Professors and students. Hogwarts has changed for the better in Severus’s opinion.

There’s an urgent knocking on the window of his potions laboratory. Severus sighs and goes to let in the feathered menace who carries his mail. A Gringotts’s eagle owl swoops in carrying a black envelope.  

* * *

**D** ecember 3rd, 1985. Minerva McGonagall is not by nature a bitter woman. However, she feels Albus’s old friend, Nicolas Flamel, is desecrating Albus’s memory with his changes to Hogwarts. She sits primly, dressed head to toe in black, in the Gringotts meeting hall for the official reading of Albus’s will. The Ministry of Magic had sealed the will during the investigation into Albus’s death, almost more than a year ago. However, everyone knew that was rubbish. Truly, the Ministry tried to assign the next Mugwump of the Wizengamott opposed to one being assigned by Albus’s will as per usual procedure. However, the doors to the courtrooms would not open to their individual selected for the role. So, the will was finally released, and Minerva would finally gain the power to revert Flamel’s changes to Hogwarts as the Headmistress, as the Will would no doubt name her opposed to the currently elected Headmaster, Nicolas Flamel. _It was about time._

The individuals called to the will reading as the beneficiaries were Molly and Arthur Weasley, Albus’s brother, Aberforth Dumbledore, her fellow Professor, Severus Snape, the former Auror, Alastair Moody, Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, and herself. The Minister of Magic and his toady, Delores Umbridge, had tried to invite themselves, but both were barred from the meeting room. A big and barrel-chested goblin entered the room carrying a scroll, several sheets of parchment and a glass orb, which most muggle-borns would often mistake for a fortune teller’s ball. The Goblin sits the orb down gently on the black cushion on the desk as he settles himself in the armchair behind the massive desk. “We will now begin the reading of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’s Will. All recipients are present, and the doors will now shut. No magic can be used in the meeting room, save by the Goblins while the will reading is in effect.” The door slam shut, and the goblin taps the glass ball. A ghostly figure of Albus Dumbledore, a projection, appears.

The recording begins to speak, “My friends and family, please, death is only the next great adventure and I mean to have fun.” The old man’s projection says a twinkle in his pale-blue eyes, “Please do not grieve for me, but celebrate my life. Now onto to my bequests. For Molly Weasley nee Prewet, I hereby bequeath you the sum of 35 thousand galleons and the Dumbledore Estate in Wales, which the goblins will give the precise location to you, in privacy. May you and your brood live long and happy lives together. And to Arthur Weasley, I hereby bequeath to you the Dumbledore house in Southern England, which the precise location will be given to you by the goblins, in privacy.” The voice of the specter pauses as the Goblin taps the glass orb. Molly bursts into tears interrupting the process. Minerva smiled pleased by her mentor’s generosity. Several minutes later, as Molly’s wailing ceased, the goblin taps the orb again and the will resumes.

“To my brother, Aberforth, I hereby bequeath you the Dumbledore noble title of Lord, as your right to inherit. And because you abhor the Dumbledore Ancestral Manor, I then bequeath you the Manor in Scotland. The Goblins will give you the location, which is under the fidelius charm and is warded heavily by myself and by a team of Wards Masters from Gringotts, in secrecy.” The goblin raises his finger to tap the orb in case anyone else starts wailing. Aberforth huffs in disgust. The orb continues to play, “To my friend and former student, Alastair Moody, I hereby bequeath you a sum of 15 thousand Galleons, a safe-house in a location not to be named in this meeting, and a cottage in Iceland. I also, hereby name you the Lord of Light Proxy until my heir is named. I am trusting you to lead the Phoenix Party at the best of your ability.”

“To my dear friend, Minerva McGonagall, I leave you a sum of 25 thousand Galleons, your home will always be at Hogwarts.” Minerva is stunned, _she was not named the Headmistress after all_. She sits in shocked silence. “To my dear boy, Severus Snape, I hereby leave you the sum of 25 thousand galleons, a Townhouse in England and Dumbledore Ancestral Manor, the locations will be disclosed to you by the goblins in privacy. I also leave to half on my library, the title of Headmaster of Hogwarts, and my guardianship over Harry James Potter. Severus, I was afraid to tell you, I left Lily’s son with Petunia. He is best protected there.” Severus stands abruptly, his face pale and dark eyes flashing angrily.

“Please sit down, Master Snape.” The goblin instructs, Severus reluctantly, wordlessly, takes his seat as Albus continues.

“I hereby leave, Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, a sum of 10 thousand galleons and the title Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamott.” Silence reigns. “I bequeath the other half of my library to my longtime friend, Nicolas Flamel. I also have created a list of personal belongings which I have left to specific individuals which I will entrust to the goblins. This hereby concludes my will. May you all live long and happy lives.” Albus’s specter said before disappearing with a distinct pop.

“Please sign for your bequests,” The goblin said. He unrolled the scrolls and placed down a quill and inkwell.

“Is there anyway one can defer a bequeath?” Severus abruptly asked.

“Yes, each item is bequeathed to you, requires an individual signature.” The goblin said.

“Then I will leave the Headmaster title to Nicolas Flamel.” Severus said and picked up the quill. He signed the document. “I have much to do, now that I will be the guardian of,” here Severus sneered, “The-Boy-Who-Lived.” Before Minerva could protest, Severus had already left the room. Minerva stands quickly and signs the document. She then chases after Severus.

“Why?” Minerva demands as soon as she catches Severus at the door, “Why leave the school in Flamel’s hands. Why not mine?” Minerva demands. Severus stares at her with a guarded expression.

“Although, you may not see it, Minerva, Nicolas has changed the school for the betterment of the students. There have been less infighting, less bullying, and the students are flourishing with these new academic parameters and assistances. I was reluctant to accept it at first, but Nicolas has changed the school for the better.” Severus says carefully.

“Why must we change anything? Albus’s school system worked just fine.” Minerva insists.

“All it was good for was churning out your Gryffindors as soldiers to fight his cause.” Severus snaps, “As much as I hate Potter, he and Lily did not deserve their fate. They had a child, why did they still fight?”

“It was the right thing to do!” Minerva insists.

“No,” Severus snapped, “It was selfish to put their ideals before their son. I love Lily like a sister, don’t get me wrong, but she was indoctrinated by your house’s and Dumbledore’s ideals to fight a war she did not need to partake in. Albus Dumbledore put his political agenda before the wellbeing of his students. He chose to ignore bullying in the face of recruitment. He endeared Potter to him by allowing his behaviors to continue.”

“That’s not true!” Minerva insists, “Albus Dumbledore was a great man. So, you support the Dark Lord’s ideals. I am so ashamed of you, Severus!” Minerva all, but shouts.

“No, Minerva, I do not. However, it’s not about a political agenda or “ideals”. It’s about the students. Your coveted position as Headmistress and your emotions towards Albus is blinding you to the truth. Wake up Minerva. You’re as brainwashed as your students. If you’re going to be a Professor, act like one.”

* * *

**D** ecember 5th, 1985. The townhouse, which Severus inherited from Albus, is located in Wickham, Hampshire. It has five floors, two of which were invisible to the muggle eye. Made of redbrick, it houses a total of five bedrooms and five-and-two-half bathrooms. The house elves live in the basement alongside the kitchen. Severus had them prepare a room for his new ward. He had also made arrangements with Nicolas to expand his quarters in order to raise Harry partially in Hogwarts. Today, he plans to pick up Lily’s son from his unpleasant relatives, no matter the protests the paranoid Auror, Moody, has about the whole thing. Despite his hatred for his former bully, James Potter, the boy’s father, and his role as a spy in the war against the Dark Lord, Voldemort, Severus can’t leave Harry with Petunia. He knows about her abusive behaviors. He knows by taking in Voldemort’s greatest enemy, his vanquisher, Harry Potter, he is visibly declaring his allegiance to the Light Side. _What must be done, must be done._  

He arrives on Magnolia Crescent, near Privet Drive, at precisely a minute after one in the afternoon. Dressed in a posh muggle suit with a green and gold tie, under a black wool peacoat. He carries a black leather briefcase to maintain appearances. He takes the icy sidewalk past rows of neat white picket fences with evergreens, growing behind them. It made an idealistic picture. The quaint brick houses are all identical, save the numbers by the front door and the whatever bloomed in their gardens or lack of things during the winter months.

Number four looks identical to the others, save that the garden was bare of anything, but cold and wet dirt and sticks sticking out of the mud and snow. The house appears empty. Severus pauses on the walk outside of it.  “Are you looking for the Dursleys?” asks a gruff voice from behind him. The man is stout with a pudgy belly and warm and intelligent cinnamon-brown eyes.

“Actually, I am looking for their nephew, Harry. I just inherited his custody from a family friend, who placed him negligently with the Dursleys. I was friends with Harry’s late mother.” Severus says as he peers down skeptically at the man before him.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Vernon and Petunia Dursley will be standing trial soon for child abuse, negligence, fraud, and attempted murder. Their son has been placed with one of his Aunts. The other Aunt is about to stand trial.” The man says solemnly.

“And Harry?” Severus asks. His unease growing.

 “Missing. The boy hamstringed Vernon, before escaping with a bullet in his own leg. He has not been found. It’s been a year now.” Severus swears colorfully. _The fuck had Albus been thinking! Safest place for Harry, his ass!_

* * *

**D** etective Edward Murray sits calmly among the other officers requested to give testimonies about the case. The courtroom is packed with observers and court reporters. Edward eyes a man at the back of the courtroom speculatively. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and piercing charcoal-grey eyes. His eyes have alluring silver flecks in them. His eyes are framed by long eyelashes. He has a large aquiline nose and a terse expression on his thin lips. His face is framed by long, feathery ebony hair. He’s not conventionally handsome, but he’s appealing in his own way. Something is off, this man isn’t a court reporter, observer or a witness. His fingers were stained, not by nicotine which turns the fingers yellow, but by a variety of herbal products. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up revealing strong forearms with barely visible burn marks and a strange tattoo of a skull and a snake. He eyes the courtroom and its visible occupants with evident distaste.

Detective Murray’s attention is pulled back to the front of the courtroom by the jury returning to the room to give the verdict. The room stills as the speaker stands, “We the jury find the defendant, Vernon Dursley, guilty of all charges!” the room explodes. The nauseatingly unrepentant and obese man begins cursing and threatening the Jury and Judge. The guards are forced to restrain Vernon as the man tries to barrel his way over to the prosecution’s lawyer in an attempt to choke him. He is escorted to the judge as the man sentences him, “Under the sum of your crimes, Vernon Dursley you are hereby sentenced to life in prison.”

This is the second trial for this case which Edward Murray has sat through. Petunia Dursley had been sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for child abuse, child endangerment, child negligence, and co-conspiring in a case of attempted murder. She was given a lesser sentence because she had pled guilty to her charges and had given the information about the abuse and conspiracy freely. There was one more case, this one for Marge Dursley. Marge Dursley was accused of animal cruelty, selling her prescription medications to adolescents, and participating in child endangerment and neglect. She had initially taken in her nephew, but after Dudley had been mauled by one of her starving dogs, he was transferred to the care of Vernon’s other sister.

The handsome detective is quick to stand and follow the retreating figure of the strange man with the tattoo. “Excuse me!” Edward calls out to the man with the tattoo as he nears the exit. The  ebony haired man pauses and glances over his shoulder as Detective Edward Murray and then stops before reaching the exit. He turns to the Detective impatiently. “Hello, I’m Detective Murray, one of the Detective in charge of the Dursley case. I would like to ask you some questions.” Edward says offering his hand in greeting to the other man.

“Severus Snape,” the man replies calmly, taking Edward’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Mister Snape,” Edward begins, “I noticed you observing in the courtroom. What is your interesting in the case?”

Severus runs a hand through his hair in frustration and evident stress, “My former employer had custody of Harry and negligently placed him with the Dursley family.” Severus almost snarls the name Dursley.

“And your employers is whom? Also, where is he?” Edward questions. “I imagine he would be invested in this case.”

“Albus Dumbledore and he’s six feet under. His death was the reason the payments stopped.” Severus says succinctly.

“And what is your interest in the case? I can’t imagine your only interest is your employer’s guardianship?”

“I was a childhood friend of Harry’s mother’s. When Albus died, he left Harry’s guardianship to me.” Severus says.

“And you never visited Harry because?” Edward demanded, frustration coloring his tone.

“I was told he was living with his relatives, not which relative. Furthermore, Albus wouldn’t tell me where he was living.”

“The former guardian denied you contact with the child. Why?” Edward demands. 

“Harry’s parents seemingly died in a gas explosion. Rumors have it that it wasn’t an accident in certain circles. Albus claimed he kept Harry’s location secret for his protection.” Severus answers irately.

“And why do you think his parents were murdered?” Edward asks.

“Lily and James were important figures in certain social circles. James was in fact a minor nobleman. He and Lily were quite vocal against certain prejudices. Suffice to say, the Potters’ opposition was frightfully powerful and dangerous. Nothing could be proven though.” Severus says cautiously.

“And what is your relation to these social circles?” Edward asks pointedly, on a hunch.

“Albus insisted that I act as his spy. After his death, I resigned to care for Harry. Unfortunately, I discovered that Harry is missing and that this whole debacle occurred, rather too late.”

“Your being rather vague.” Edward says pointedly.

“For your protection,” Severus says, “These individuals of interest are very powerful.”

“Without names, I can’t investigate.” He says insistently.

“Your case is focused on the Dursley family. Not to investigate a gas explosion.” Severus counters.

“Point,” Edward concedes, “What is your occupation?”

“I hold degrees in Chemistry, Botany and Physics from Oxford,” Severus replies honestly, “I currently work in researching alternative medicines, but I also guest lecture and tutor.” Severus had pursued a muggle degree after graduating his masterships in Potions and Spell Crafting, and he had gotten in record time. It was a testament to his talent and intelligence that he was granted a position as a guest lecturer at Cambridge, albeit he lectured infrequently. 

“Is there a phone number I can reach you by?” Edward asks pulling out a notepad.

“I just moved to a more child friendly home, I can give you the address, but I do not have a phone.” Edward nods and Severus gives the man his address in Wickham. Once he gets home, Severus will need to inform the House Elves to use an illusion when answer the door to the muggle Detective.

* * *

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**J** ail does not favor Vernon’s personal constitution. If anything, jail has turned him into a nervous wreck. He doesn’t know how he will survive a life behind bars. There are freaks everywhere! Walking around with tattoos on their arms and gambling in the dining hall. They share a common shower room and must shower with limited privacy. Vernon’s cellmate even masturbated above him on the bunk bed. It was sickening. The televisions were ruled over by the more violent prisoners with a tight fist. When Vernon had demanded that the change the channel from a newscast about his family and their crimes, he’d receive a vicious beating. Vernon’s trial had been sensationalized. Some of the prisoners took offense on the behalf of his nephew. Apparently, child murderers and abusers were looked down upon by other prisoners. A freaky pervert, a child molester, had asked if his nephew and son were pretty. Thankfully, a violent fellow prisoner had ended that freak’s life shortly thereafter.

A very dangerous man, a gang leader, had taken offense to Vernon and was constantly harassing him. Little things, like taking an extra helping before Vernon, which prevented Vernon from getting his seconds, to tripping him in the halls. This particular man undermined all his attempts at socializing, which forced Vernon into isolation. Vernon sits in the dinning hall, palms constantly sweaty and double chin bobbing as he swallows nervously. It was making him physically ill, this anxiety.

* * *

**_S_ ** _even-years-old Dudley Dursley does not know how to treat his lesbian Aunt and her lover. Elizabeth Dursley-Harrow was a lesbian and a civil rights lawyer, not someone Vernon and Petunia Dursley had wanted around Dudley. No, definitely not someone they had wanted around. Aunt Lizzie’s partner Rachael Harrow was an international model and a renowned humanitarian and activist. His mum and da had always told him that poofs were freaks of nature, but Aunt Lizzie was much better than Aunt Marge and Ripper. Dudley shudders at the memory of the Pitbull and his sharp, sharp teeth. Aunt Lizzie was kind and generous, but stern._

_Dudley had thrown a fit for a new toy and Aunt Lizzie had sent him to his room in punishment. He’d tried again at dinner, when she hadn’t made his favorite food. It hadn’t worked. Then Aunt Lizzie and Aunt Rae had introduced him to a point system. He could earn a new toy by gaining thirty points. Good behavior and a few simple chores for an entire day earned him points, while bad behavior and refusing to do chores subtracted points. Good language and choosing healthy food options earned half a point. Bad language and indulging in too much candy subtracted points. He’d earned two toys in the six months he’d been living with Aunt Lizzie and Aunt Rae. These toys meant more to him than the ones his mum and da had given him._

_Dudley’s toy chest was in the living room of the apartment, but he wasn’t allowed to take any toys to his room except for the plush animals to sleep with. He’d tries to sneak a few in, but Aunt Rae had taken them away for a week. Dudley had learned it was easier to follow their rules and directions than throw a fit. He was also losing weight and the kids had stopped teasing him about his considerable girth at the public school he attended in London. Aunt Lizzie took him to the park every Saturday and he enjoyed running around under her supervision for hours._

Early one Saturday morning, the phone begins to ring as Lizzie makes breakfast. She’s watching the griddle, making pancakes on the heated surface as she picks on the landline. “Dursley-Harrow residence.” She says distractedly.

“Lizzie,” a familiar voice says cautiously.

“Dad?” Lizzie asks, turning down the heat on the griddle, preparing herself for an exhausting conversation. She hasn’t heard from her father in the last three years. When they last spoke, her father had recited bible verses on the sin of homosexuality at her. She’d hung up on him after telling him where to stuff it.

“Lizzie, I want to apologize. I may not approve of your relationship with Rachael, but I do not have the right to judge you. God is the only one with that right. You are a better person than I will ever be.” Her father says softly, solemnly, “Your brother called me from jail. He was asking for bail money. I told him that he did the crime, so he must do the time. His actions and words made me think. I don’t want to be a father who doesn’t speak to his daughter because of her orientation. I don’t want to cut you or Dudley out of my life because I don’t agree with who you love. The fact that when you love, you love wholeheartedly and with deep loyalty, is enough for me. I hope you and Rachael are doing well and that Dudley has fit into your life without undo fuss.”

Tears dripping down her cheeks, but a smile stretched ear to ear, Lizzie responds, “Thank you dad.”

“I was hoping you’d bring Rachael and Dudley over for a barbeque next Saturday. I’ve invited some of our old neighbors and such. I know it might be too much to ask of you, but I thought I’d give it a try.” He says carefully.

“I need to speak with Dudley and Rachael, I will get back to you tomorrow.” Lizzie says.

“Alright,” her father agrees softly, with hint of surprise and joy in his voice. “My number is the same, give me a call when have your answer.” The man says warmly.

“I’ll let you know soon, but if we can’t make it, we will just reschedule. Okay, dad?” Lizzie asks.

“Alright, sounds good.” He replies.


End file.
